Sounds carried
clearly. From the Welton's, down the street, came the tinkle of a
mandolin and an occasional low laugh from the group of young people
that nightly frequented the front steps. Tree toads chirped in
unison or fell abruptly silent as though by signal. All up and down
the rows of houses whirred the low monotone of the lawn sprinklers,
and the aroma of their wetness was borne cool and refreshing through
the tepid air.
Orde and his wife sat together on the top step. He slipped his arm
about her. They said nothing, but breathed deep of the quiet
happiness that filled their lives.
The gate latch clicked and two shadowy figures defined themselves
approaching up the concrete walk.
"Hullo!" called Orde cheerfully into the darkness.
"Hullo!" a man's voice instantly responded.
"Taylor and Clara," said Orde to Carroll with satisfaction. "Just
the man I wanted to see."
The lawyer and his wife mounted the steps. He was a quick,
energetic, spare man, with lean cheeks, a bristling, clipped
moustache, and a slight stoop to his shoulders. She was small,
piquant, almost child-like, with a dainty up-turned nose, a large
and lustrous eye, a constant, bird-like animation of manner--the
Folly of artists, the adorable, lovable, harmless Folly standing
tiptoe on a complaisant world.
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